


Every Unhappy Family

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [43]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: 20th Century, AU, Artists, Historical, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Siblings, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28285083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Crawford comes across a workmate of Schuldig's for the second time.
Relationships: Brad Crawford/Schuldig
Series: For Art's Sake [43]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/18573
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Every Unhappy Family

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Indelicateink!

I have returned from the butcher with a half-pound of bacon and a couple of lamb chops that I have some vague ideas of incinerating for my dinner when the sheer awfulness of my own cooking overwhelms me and I decide to instead freshen myself up to an acceptable degree for a pleasant establishment on my way to the pub for a drink. I can sketch the clientele as I dine; I'm sure they don't mind such observation, after all I am not as intrusive as the progressive journalists and thinkers who sometimes swarm about the area. After a leisurely coffee and perusal of the papers I wash and shave, and put on a marginally cleaner shirt before strolling down the stairs.

"You're going out, Mr Crawford?" Miss Shaw says as I pass her landing. She seems too tired to get her key in the lock at first try.

I cannot fault her powers of observation, and raise my hat.

"I'm off to dinner, Miss Shaw. No one should be subjected to my cooking, not even me!"

"How nice to be able to dine out whenever you wish," she says, trying rather wanly for a smile. "The life of an artist seems very gay!" She gets her door open at last. "Well, good evening, then, Mr Crawford."

"Good evening."

I look at her closed door a moment. I cannot imagine that mousy Miss Shaw, of all people, might be tipsy. Or that she is labouring under the shock of terrible news or a broken heart. She's just tired after a long day at work. I put her from my mind and go down to the hallway, whistling. 

The afternoon post has come since I was last down, and some helpful nosy neighbour has sorted it into little piles for each recipient. All there is for me is a postcard from my sisters, who have descended _en masse_ on New York, God help the city. They inform me that it is still very hot there, but that the department stores are far superior to those in Boston. I imagine them in Harrods and am transfixed with terror. Mostly, it must be said, for my wallet; I can't imagine how many speciality paintings I'd have to rush through to pay for just one expedition. I slip the card into my pocket and head out into the street.

I have a dinner that is filling and not burnt in the slightest, the beef tender and delicious. I am almost completely ignored when I take out my sketchbook and begin to work. They know me here, and are used to my oddities by now. I draw quickly, capturing the other diners in as few lines as possible, then on a whim, draw a fashionably-dressed lady in the doorway. I follow this with a sketch of another well-dressed lady sitting, her legs crossed, at the next table, and another sitting across the table from me. I look at them and fill in fine details, shading and adding adornments that come to mind. Much of what I know of women's fashion is of course copied from the clothing of Miss Lin and the Russian sisters; I never paid much attention to my sisters' dresses at home. I sit back and look at the sketches critically. How strange. I can't properly remember what my sisters' faces look like. If I let my mind drift I can picture them, almost at the edge of my mind's eye, but if I turn my attention fully on the memory it dissolves. I'm not sure what I feel, and take out the card, just looking at the greeting. _Dearest Brad_. Do they remember what I look like?

What I need is not to sit around in a maudlin daze, but to have a large gin and tonic. I resolve to have one as soon as possible with the other members of the Rosenkreuz group. I gather up my belongings, pay and leave. I'm nearly at the pub we meet at when I hear a familiar voice coming from behind a stack of pallets by the side of a building.

"No, see, draw the ears more pointy, like this –"

I peer around and find Schuldig with a much smaller boy, perhaps six years old, busily engaged in drawing cats in chalk on the wall. The boy's cats are merely two circles atop each other with uneven triangles for ears and whiskers sticking out at odd angles. At least I hope those are the ones drawn by the boy, or else Schuldig has worsened dramatically since last he showed me anything. I suspect the images resembling an actual cat are his, though.

"Shit," the child says, squirming back into as much cover as he can.

"It's all right," Schuldig says. "This is a friend of mine. Say hello to Mr Crawford."

"Hello," I say in amusement. "Are you passing on your lessons?" 

"Yeah," Schuldig says, and he sounds angry. "That's what I'm doing, which is why I was allowed bring Walter back here. Remember Frankie? Who took the watch?"

"Yes?" I say, feeling a niggle of worry.

"He's a little fool and he gambled most of that money. And now he owes, and his bookie came up with a way to pay. This is his little brother."

"Are you telling me this child is being held hostage until your friend pays his debt?"

"In a way, yes."

"I'm not sure I understand," I say. "What does this have to do with you teaching him drawing?"

"I'm not supposed to be teaching him drawing," he says, and rubs a hand over his face wearily. "Frankie told them I'd show him what's what. He figured it'd give the kid a few more minutes."

I suddenly realise what he's telling me, and feel like I need to sit down. There is nowhere except the sidewalk, so I make do with putting a hand against the wall.

"He's just a little child! Tell me you –"

"Don't be such a fucking _idiot!_ " He sounds furious. "I'm trying to keep him out of sight!"

"Frankie said to do what Fritz says," Walter offers, from back in the shadows.

"Don't call him that," I say.

"Why?"

"Just – where _is_ Frankie?"

"Other side of the street," Schuldig says. "Working. There's a big, ugly sort around making sure he doesn't run off. He'll make him get Walter out soon."

Something makes me look across the street and I see Frankie creep out of a laneway a second later, looking glum. He goes to stand at the edge of the circle of light thrown by a lamppost, leaning against the wall, looking idly up and down the street. After a few moments a large man comes to speak with him, and Frankie passes over the contents of his pockets.

"I believe your big ugly sort is talking to him now. Oh. He's looking over here."

"Fuck. Shitting balls of an arselicking cunting _bollocks_ ," Schuldig says. Walter giggles in delight as Schuldig looks at me in outright panic. "He's fucking _eight_ , Crawford. And Frankie says he doesn't understand things as quickly as other boys."

I'm taken aback a little, having thought the child even younger. I peer into the shadows and note how thin and delicate-seeming he is, the marks of not enough good food now clear to me. 

"Come on," I say, deciding it's better to meet trouble head-on. "Walter, let's go talk to Frankie, OK?"

"Mister, are you a Yank?" Walter says, even more delighted than by Schuldig's swearing.

"I sure am," I say, in the worst southern drawl north of the Mason-Dixon line. "C'mon pard'ner." _Up_ I mouth at Schuldig.

"Come on, Walter," Schuldig says, and the boy comes forward from his safe spot. He isn't even wearing shoes or socks. It's a warm night, but he shouldn't be roaming the streets barefoot. "I can't just tell him to run," he whispers to me, "They'll take it out of Frankie's hide. And he might say something about my family."

"It's all right," I say, although it is far from all right. "Frankie!"

Frankie looks at me in confusion, then in fear as he recognises me.

"Who's this?" the large man says.

"Trade," Frankie says faintly. "That's all."

"Are you busy at the moment?" I say, feeling light-headed.

"No, he's not. You, get him around that corner."

"Just a moment, I wasn't talking to you. Your little brother shouldn't be out. You should send him home."

"Yes, Mister," Frankie says. "I would if I could."

"How much do you owe?"

There is a moment's silence, and then the large man laughs.

"A knight in shining armour, are you? Your damsel here hasn't been keeping herself chaste."

"Nine pound eight shilling," Frankie whispers as I try not to show how horrified I am by the amount. "Though it's eight pound now, I got a pound tonight –"

"That's going towards the interest," the man says. "You still owe the nine. And you can pay for his time too." He jerks a thumb at Walter. "Let's call it an even fifteen, and your little fairy friend is clear for the moment."

I smile in bland condescension at him, trying to think how my father would look at someone like this. I do not have fifteen pounds in my wallet, and cannot appear less than confident. I take my keys out with a bored expression and hand them to Schuldig without looking.

"Don't take too long," I say.

He's gone almost before I finish speaking. The big man rolls his eyes scornfully.

"You're a fool. That's the last we'll see of him tonight. And that you'll see of anything you have worth stealing. You!" He turns to Frankie. "You may as well earn some more while you wait to see if your friend comes back. Go and prowl around the area."

"Neither of these boys is leaving my sight until I know they are free of obligations to you or whoever you represent," I say, pulling Frankie back as he begins to creep off.

"Where were you going, Frankie?" Walter says, and is hushed by his brother.

The man eyes me, as if ready to teach me a lesson, but I can see that he'll back down. He might not flinch from slapping a half-nourished boy like Frankie around but I am an unknown proposition.

"If I don't get the money by half-past," he says, pulling out a watch, "They can both start earning." He goes to position himself on another corner and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

"How did you get in this mess, Frankie?" I say.

"The ponies weren't kind," Frankie says, looking down at the cobblestones. "And then I borrowed some money hoping the next set would be kinder."

"You could have used that money to feed your family and get your brother here new shoes," I say sternly.

"Yeah," he says. "Do you have a cigarette?"

I sigh and hand one over. 

"C'n I have one too?"

"No, Walter," I say. "They're not good for children."

"You can have the butt of mine when I'm done," Frankie says, in the lordly manner of all older brothers, and Walter perks up. I sigh, but decide it's not worth interfering further.

"I can't believe you just gave Fritz your keys like that, Mr Crawford! Do you think he'll come back? Are you sure he won't just steal your money?"

"He asked me for help," I say. "He asked me to help _your_ little brother. I'm also helping you, but I don't have the money to do this again. You have to be careful, Frankie."

"Fritz was showing me how to draw a really good cat," Walter said. "And he gave me grapes, they were so sweet –"

"I – look, I know I can't pay you back, I know I was a bleeding idiot," Frankie says. "And I know it doesn't mean nothing, coming from someone like me, but Fritz said you could be trusted. He said you might be able to help, he said to try to get ourselves put out here, in case you came this way, and he was right."

I snort with laughter; coming across them was less of a coincidence than it seemed, it would appear. Frankie leans in a little closer.

"Get my brother home safe, Mr Crawford," he says quietly, "And I'll do anything you want. Anything you've been thinking of, anything Fritz won't, I don't mind. Just get Walter home."

"You're both going home," I say firmly, alarmed at the thought of his offer. What if he insists? What if Schuldig finds out? I'll have to tell him before he discovers it for himself.

We fall silent, watching Walter kicking a stone up and down the street. It doesn't seem to worry him that he's doing it barefoot, but I wince every time his small toes make contact with it. The time is inexorably ticking towards half-past nine when I see Schuldig sprinting towards us. He slides to a stop in front of me, panting, and digs a tightly folded roll of banknotes from his pocket. He presses it and my keys into my hand.

"Fifteen pounds," he says, gasping for air. "Fuck it, Frankie, don't ever pull this shit again."

The man flings his latest cigarette butt on the ground and strolls over.

"He came back," he says. "There's honour amongst pansies after all. Where's the money?"

"Frankie's debt is paid in full," I say. "He owes nothing more."

"For the moment," the man says. "Some people just don't know when to stop."

I hand over the money and he counts it. He nods and turns away, then turns back.

"Men like you make me sick," he says to me. "Unnatural bastard." He strides away.

I feel ill with shame that others may have heard him; that Schuldig will think me no better than Williamson and those others. My thoughts are broken in upon by the sound of spittle hitting the cobblestones beside me.

"Fuck him," Frankie says, very quietly but with pure vitriol in his voice.

"Yeah. Arsehole," Schuldig says, just as quietly and acidly. He shrugs at my raised eyebrow; normally he isn't shy at giving his opinion. "That sort won't hit someone like _you_ unless you hit him first. Us, he'll hit."

I realise I have no appetite left for going drinking as I look between their young faces. Surely there is some work Frankie can do that is safe and would provide for his family. It is, however, not something I should further involve myself in, or he will ask me for more and more help.

"Take Walter home, Frankie," I say, "And stay there yourself. Let everything die down."

"Can I have the chalk?" Walter says.

"Yeah," Schuldig says, and pulls a small piece of chalk from his pocket, handing it to the boy. "You make Frankie take you straight home, understand?"

"All right!" Walter says cheerfully.

"You can make one stop," I say, and hand over the ten-shilling note I had brought for my night out. "Stop in a café and feed yourselves. There should be enough left over to mean you don't have to – " I sigh, " – work any more tonight. Go home, Frankie, and be sensible. I don't have the money to do this again."

"Thank you, Mr Crawford," he says, looking contrite. I don't believe it for a second. "G'night. Night, Fritz. C'mon, Walter."

"OK! Bye, Mister! Bye, Fritz!"

They head off, Walter suddenly chattering now that he doesn't have to contend with strangers.

"Frankie, did you know he's a Yank? I bet he's seen wolves and coyotes and –"

"Shut up, Walter."

" – and bandits and train robbers and cowboys and –"

"God! Shut it!"

" – Texans and –"

I can blessedly hear no more. I turn to Schuldig who looks tired and annoyed with the world.

"Let's hope that that is that. I have enough change left to buy you _a_ drink, if you like?"

"No," he shakes his head. "I'm not in the mood. It'll have to be me who pays you back, Crawford, because he'll never save up more than a shilling or two."

"Oh, he offered to pay in kind," I say as lightly as I can.

"Shh!" Schuldig says, then, "You'd better have turned him down."

"Of course I did," I say, "Come on, let's get out of here. Really, Schuldig, you should think better of me. I did just get your friend out of a lot of trouble."

He looks at me and his shoulders sag. He looks positively woebegone.

"I'm sorry," he says, which is not what I wanted and leaves me feeling guilty. "You didn't have to do any of that, but I'm fucking glad you did. I wish you'd hit him for what he called you as well as us."

"Come back to the flat, and I'll incinerate a lamb chop for you," I say, trying to save something of the evening. "It's only money. It's not important compared to keeping people safe, and anyway, I've already paid the rent. You wouldn't want me brought up before a magistrate for brawling in the street, would you?"

"You could have whipped out your six-shooter and drilled him between the eyes."

"Yes. I got a lot of practice at that in Boston. The bandits and cattle-drives make getting around the city quite difficult. At least it’s nothing like the incessant gunfights in front of saloons the poor New Yorkers have to endure."

Success. He is trying not to smile. He gives in and takes off his cap to tousle up his hair before jamming it back on his head and giving me an almost normal grin.

"I could do with some supper. Lead on, cowpoke."

"I don't even know what _continent_ that accent was supposed to be."

"You actually could afford to rescue Frankie again," he says slyly, when we are almost home. "I counted what's in the jar."

"Did you indeed. That's for a rainy day, and London has far too many of those. In fact, you might ask Williamson if any of his friends are looking for a nice private piece of art, just to top things up again."

"Maybe a companion piece to something you've already done? I could be casually looking through a sketchbook of your ideas and leave it open at a particularly good page. Me really _enjoying_ a book, or Roman soldiers sticking more than arrows in Saint Sebastian –"

"I'll start work on just such a book tomorrow." I open my front door and we go into the dark hallway. "If I have to rescue anyone again with the money from my art, it won't be Frankie," I say quietly, and as the hall and stairs are dark and silent, risk pulling him close and breathing in the scent of his hair. Schuldig holds tight and kisses me with complete attention, then steps back.

"Where's my lamb chop?" he says, laughing.

"At once, sir!" I say, and we run up the stairs, heedless of the noise.

As we reach the top my sisters' faces float, as clear as day, into my mind and I know I could paint any of them as easily as I could paint Schuldig. My mood is lifted, and I decide I shall incinerate both chops for him, and draw him as he eats. Around him I will place my sisters.

If they joined forces, no department store could withstand the four of them.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."_   
> 
> 
> \-- Tolstoy, _Anna Karenina_


End file.
